


Scars

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Unity in the End [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock Roulette, Love, M/M, Scars, general musing on life, protecting each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1428088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both John and Sherlock are covered in scars of varying origins, but each scar holds a similar meaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scars

Each scar is infinitely precious – a battle won, a war survived, touched by death but fighting through. Scars are a tapestry, a story woven through pain and skin, blood spilled on bright blue days (or dark starry nights). Each represents a moment where death was in reach, but some way, somehow, was held back.

John and Sherlock are covered in far too many scars. Tracklines, bullet wounds, beatings laid out for all to see. (In truth, it is only ever the other who sees, on nights tangled together, each needing the other pressed close, memories of scars reminiscent of moments where this could have been lost before beginning.) Every scar receives a kiss, feather-light finger touches, delicacy though pain is long gone.

(There are deeper scars too, invisible, unknown except to the well-trained eye. Scars on minds, and hearts. Nightmares, phantom pain, emptiness and numbness forming a yawning chasm. The brightest days are sometimes the blackest, these hidden scars coming forward all at once.)

The scars are badges of victory branded on flesh, forged in the darkest moments. Each proclaims in a unique way “life has proved stronger than death.” Though the scars are memories of grief – a declaration of a time in which the other was not there – they are also quiet proclamations of survival. What was bruised and broken beyond recognition, pieced back together again. Healed in the arms of another.


	2. Peace After the Storm

Those two men have been defined by their scars, of which there may be no doubt. Their lives, their minds, their relationships with each other and others. It was scars which brought them together on that fated day – a scarred mind and scarred shoulder leading to their meeting each other. It was, again, scars which could so easily have driven them apart – scarred minds once more, both this time, and the physical evidence of wounds inflicted in a cause.

In the end, too, it is scars which brought them back together. Scarred hearts and scarred chests, bullet wounds and life’s own tragedies. (If they’d realised what was there in the beginning, so much blood and hurt could have been spared. But they wouldn’t have the scars marking them as survivors. Sometimes, it is difficult to know which would have been better. Perhaps they needed the experiences to fully appreciate what was in front of them all the while.)

But now, side by side, in bed, fingers lightly tracing those battle scars, each knows that they are stronger for having been through the fire, stronger for being together at last. (Cliché though it is, and isn’t that a difficult idea to accept? Not so unique after all, or at least, not in this regard.) In each other’s arms, there is nothing which can drag them back to blood spilled on desert sands or in darkened dungeons. 

(More than anything, it’s a relief after everything which has gone before to get them here. All of the late nights and early mornings, the worry, the silent aching, the quiet, sub-consciousness wondering when the rest of the world is silent. All stilled, ended. Questions like that have no place here. Not anymore.)


	3. Scarred Memories

Sometimes, a vague, phantom pain manifests in those scars, a memory of agony, of encroaching death. A leg will buckle, a shoulder will give, a back will ache in the cold darkness. And when that happens, the other will take over, will soldier on. Will rub in the liniment and cradle his lover close, arms wrapped tight, head to chest, restless brain taking comfort in familiar warmth, familiar heartbeat. They'll stay there like that, all day if needs be, one dozing in the respite, the other protecting him, guarding against the demons, murmuring about anything to provide a voice.

(These dark days are only temporary, when snow is falling thick and heavy, cold leaching heat from hearts and minds, when a case goes terribly, horribly wrong, sometimes when it's been too long since a bad day so a bad day decides to strike. They never can know why, but every moment is noted, analysed, filed away for future reference and comparison.)

It's as if the sun comes out again, chasing the darkness, melting the ice, and life goes back to the way it always is - experiments at the kitchen table, explosions in the microwave, crap telly and scientific journals and takeaway and cases. (Oh, the cases.) Each piece of normality becomes a little more precious, a little less prosaic. 

(The scars never change, except for those thankfully-rare occasions that there's an addition. Then it's clinging close and praying the sun comes up soon to banish the phantom ticking clock. Fingers tangled together, each a life raft for the other.)


	4. Significance of Scars

There are several scars littering Sherlock’s body which are – to John’s mind – more painful, more symbolic than the others. (Though the tracklines are reminiscent of their own problems, they’re still not as agonising as the others.)

Two of them go together – the bullet wound left by Mary, and the scar from the second surgery. When John runs his fingers over them, he remembers those nights spent by Sherlock’s hospital bed, too horrified and sickened by what he failed to see to fully compute anything else. (It was not his fault, and he couldn’t have known anyway, not if Sherlock – and Mary – didn’t want him to know, but the memories fill him with guilt just the same.)

The other scars are even more important – though one is a scar and the other is faded, like a memory of what was there. These, too, are on Sherlock’s chest, all that’s left of the bullet that almost ended his life not long after he and John got together. (Piercing a lung, clipping a rib, bone fragments working their own damage. The complications – pneumonia, first, then the infection from the central line catheter. John’s never been able to forget those weeks in hospital, but particularly the days when it looked as if there could only be a few hours in Sherlock, hours of pain in the midst of his unconsciousness, a battery of machines keeping life in his battered body. John still feels nauseous when he remembers all of the tubes and wires, the weak pulse faltering beneath his fingers before the ambulance arrived. He’d thought nothing could be worse than the damage done by Mary. How wrong he was.)

That second set of scars – the real and the almost-imagined – hold another significance too. Years later, it is the memory of when he almost didn’t pull through that convinces Sherlock that the time has come for change. He doesn’t tell John for a while, simply scales down on the number of cases he’s taking before they finally buy the place in Sussex. Out there, amongst the bees and away from the city, the scars lose some of their power, not being associated with the cottage. In that place of peace and easiness, both can hardly believe that it didn’t end in blood. (Though sometimes, it came mighty close. The scars exist not simply as blemishes, but as reminders of the fire that forged the new life that they have today.)

But while John is haunted by the memories of Sherlock's scars, Sherlock knows that if not for John's war wounds they would never met. So while he hates those scars for the pain they inflicted, the blood loss and the almost-destruction, the almost-never meeting, he loves them too, in a way. Loves them for what they symbolise, for the catalyst of the change in his own person, though he didn't recognise it for what it was at the time. (Seems he can be remarkably selective that way.)


	5. All Thanks to the Scars

It's the scars which have brought them here, to where they are. Together in Sussex with a cottage and bees and books, marked by adventure. Without the scars, they would never have met. Without the scars, they would never have admitted what was in front of them all of the time, leaving this forever in the bounds of friendships, pulled slowly apart by time. They almost allowed that to happen as it is. And though they've scarred each other - words said at the wrong moment, actions done that cannot be undone, two long years apart - that's all part of their history now. Woven into their tapestry, embroidered on the very foundations of their relationship. Though it bloody hurt at the time - and for a long time afterwards - they recovered. They moved on, stronger for the pain, better able to bear the next battle however much it may burn. The scars remind each of them of the hell that they went through, but, in the end it's the scars that make this more precious, the threat of the almost driving them to treasure further the already treasured, engrain it deep so as to be undeniable.

And so it is, born from blood and promised death, the scars serve a new purpose. The reminder of their battles and wars, the stories that they could tell but choose not to. Ultimately, it is the story of two men who forged a path together and carried on, who battled through even when it seemed certain that everything was lost. In truth, they saved each other. (And where these scars are concerned, it doesn’t matter that that’s a cliché.)


End file.
